Black Madonna*

We are the stranger sons,

the prodigals, we have returned.

We are the lonely ones

who always sought for you and yearned.

We found the ancient gate,

the ancient house our people fled,

and friendly hands that wait

to serve us wine and salt and bread.

And what we have endured:

that hunger in our hearts since birth,

their smiles and words have cured.

O Black Madonna bless their hearth!

—Alan Edward Symanski

"Against Death in the Spring," 1934

From Anthology of Polish-American Poetry, 1937